


No Glory In Battle Worth the Blood It Costs

by Kahtya Sofia (KahtyaSofia)



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Dark Fest 2011, Domestic Violence (non-graphic), M/M, PTSD, Self-Harm, Self-Medicating, Violence of Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-18
Updated: 2011-03-18
Packaged: 2017-10-17 01:16:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KahtyaSofia/pseuds/Kahtya%20Sofia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brad is severely wounded during battle in Afghanistan. The real fight begins once he’s home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Glory In Battle Worth the Blood It Costs

**Author's Note:**

> Dark Fest Prompt: _Any fandom, any characters, He was wounded but not broken when he returned from the battle._
> 
> Author’s Notes: Huge thanks to pjvilar and schlicky for their excellent beta work.

_It‘s a convoy, like all other convoys Brad has been assigned to during his time in Afghanistan. The road is long, straight, and flat. He’s in the third Humvee from the front. The day is sunny and bright. Visibility is good in all directions. It’s colder than fuck, but the Under Armour and the fleece shirt of the new style of uniform keeps most of it at bay.  
_

 _There are structures approximately 275 meters out, on either side of the road. They’re traveling at around 175 kph. There are individuals walking along the side of the road, but that’s typical. Most are old men, women and children. The young men always hide.  
_

 _It comes out of nowhere. Brad’s first warning of the ambush is the sight of several RPG trails. He knows it’s coming, but he’s still stunned and jarred violently by the impact of an RPG on his Humvee.  
_

 _The pain is both blinding and nauseating. Brad’s ears ring from the explosion. The vehicle rolls multiple times, the heavy armor possibly the only thing keeping Brad from being crushed. The screams of wounded and dying Marines surround him, punching through the blast-induced ringing. He tries to reach for his weapon but his left arm doesn’t work. Brad tries to open the door of the Humvee, but it seems jammed. The pain in his right leg is white-hot and blurs his vision around the edges.  
_

 _He turns his head to ask Morrison, his driver, what the fuck happened. Morrison no longer has a face. Brad realizes the side of his own face is warm and wet with the splattered flesh and brain matter of his Humvee driver.  
_

 _Sounds of battle rage around him. Marines are shouting at one another. It’s a familiar and deadly chaos that Brad knows he should be a part of. His arm is numb and his leg hurts to the point he wants to puke. The smell of charred human flesh raises bile in the back of his throat.  
_

 _The door of Brad’s Humvee jerks open with a tortured squeak. Marines are there, shifting him; moving and lifting him from inside the vehicle. As they’re setting Brad down on the pavement, shouting for the Corpsman, he catches sight of his own right leg and …_

Screams.

There were screams all around Brad. They were so close and so loud; they felt like they were in his head. He struggled to reach his weapon, but his arms wouldn’t cooperate. There was a dull ache in his left arm that felt like a warning, but he couldn’t think of what it meant. His throat was raw and burned when he swallowed. Pain in his right leg burned red-hot. He smelled burning bodies.

Brad wasn’t sure what the fuck was going on, but he knew he had to fight his way clear of it, or die trying.

“Brad, Brad, Brad,” a female voice called. She repeated his name over and over. If he stopped to acknowledge her, Marines could die. He battled on.

“Gunny Colbert,” the voice said, much more firmly. Brad ignored her. “Gunnery Sergeant,” she snapped, and it nearly sounded like an order.

Brad’s eyes snapped open and all he saw were walls painted in muted colors. He was on his back, and he had to get up, right the fuck now. He struggled against unseen hands restraining him. The screaming continued. “Marine!” the woman shouted, inches away from his face. “At ease, Marine. Stand the fuck down.”

The direct order, given firm and loud, stilled Brad’s actions. His chest heaved with each breath he took. He heard his own harsh inhales and exhales. It sounded like he was dying. But the battle wasn’t over, and Brad couldn’t relax. He pushed against whatever was holding him back, holding him down. His arm ached and his leg felt like someone was carving into his thigh with a Ka-Bar.

“Brad, Brad,” the voice was back, quiet and soothing now. “Here, listen. Just listen and relax.”

Something hard and cold was pressed to Brad’s ear. He heard another voice, clear but distant.

“Brad. Brad, you gotta calm down. You were dreaming again, Brad. You’re okay. You’re in the hospital, but you’re okay.”

Nate.

Brad slowed his struggles and focused on the familiar sound of Nate’s voice as it washed over him, calming him.

“You’re fine. It was just a dream. Stop fighting your nurse, Brad. She can help you with the pain. Just relax and let her help you.”

Brad glanced around the room, struggling to control his breathing. The pale walls. White linens everywhere. Rows and rows of beds, occupied by damaged bodies. IV poles everywhere. The smell was antiseptic and turned Brad’s stomach. He looked at the woman standing next to him, holding the phone to his ear. He knew her face.

“Brad? Brad, are you there?” Nate’s voice was urgent in his ear. “Are you okay, now?”

“Yeah,” he answered slowly, remembering the dozens of times this had happened before; Nate’s voice over the phone the only thing keeping Brad from ripping the hospital to shreds. “Yeah, I’m okay, now.”

“Good,” Nate sighed, relief and sadness both obvious in his voice. “Your mom will be there in a few hours. Let Captain Graham help you, in the meantime.”

Captain Graham. Brad’s nurse, who worked the twelve darkest hours of the day. The Navy Captain, with Nate’s number on speed dial, prepared for incidents such as this.

“I’m good, I’m good,” Brad insisted, struggling to regain his composure and slow his hammering pulse. “I’m sorry to wake you again.” His throat was on fire, but now Brad realized it was because all those screams had been his own.

“Don’t be stupid, Brad. It’s okay to wake me if you need me,” Nate replied gently. “I’ll be there this afternoon, as usual.”

Brad was pleased to hear that. Nate’s presence at his bedside was comforting. As soon as that thought resolved, Brad hated himself. He hated his need to be comforted. Nate shouldn’t have to upend his life like this.

Captain Graham slid the phone into her pocket. From another pocket, she withdrew a syringe, uncapped it with her teeth, and pushed the contents into his IV line. “Give that just a few moments and your leg will feel so much better,” she said softly.

In spite of himself, Brad glanced down at his own body. His right thigh, three-quarters of the size it should be, was heavily swathed in bandages. He’d earned a Purple Heart, but lost a chunk of thigh muscle. He’d lost his career right along with it. An RPG in Afghanistan had insured what a broken ankle could not; Brad would never again scale Mt. Shasta. He was forever combat ineffective.

Almost immediately, the ache in his left arm eased. The worst of the pain from that injury had long passed, anyway. It was a clean break, easily fixed with a couple of titanium pins. In the grand scheme, it was a minor injury.

Captain Graham checked the restraints on Brad’s wrists and ankles. They strapped him to the bed now, when he slept. They’d started that after the first time he’d done considerable damage to the ward, and to himself, when he woke up from the nightmare, fighting.

“You just go back to sleep now, Brad,” Captain Graham said, quietly. “One bad dream a night is usually all you have.”

He closed his eyes at the feel of her hand on his chest and the other running over his hair. He wished those were Nate’s hands.

Brad realized the sharp pain in his leg had eased. His arm was relatively pain free. The good pain killers made him drowsy, on top of killing his pain.

“Do you remember anything about your dream?” Captain Graham asked.

“No,” Brad answered in a whisper. “It’s like I’m there again when I dream, but as soon as I wake up, it’s as blank as the incident itself.”

“Just go back to sleep, then,” she murmured.

Brad took a deep breath and let himself sink down.

~*~

Brad’s mom settled back into her chair next to his bed. They always made her leave when they changed his dressings, and he was glad. He knew it would kill her to see a large portion of her baby boy’s thigh missing. The wound made Brad sick when he saw it.

“You don’t have to hang around here, Mom,” he said. She settled down to start reading a stack of email she’d received on his behalf.

“Where else do you think I would be, Bradley?” She looked at him over the frames of her reading glasses.

“You probably need to get home. Dad’s attempts to cook for himself have undoubtedly put your house at risk.” Brad’s parents, and both of his sisters, had been here when he first woke up. It was one of his earliest clear memories. His final days in Afghanistan, and his brief stay in Germany, were surreal and hazy.

“He needs me less than you do,” she replied sharply. “Your sisters are looking after him.”

“It’s got to be expensive for you to stay in a hotel for this long,” he countered. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been in Bethesda, but he knew it had been weeks.

“Brad,” his mom looked surprised that he hadn’t worked this out on his own. “I’m staying with Nate’s parents.”

Nate’s family had been dragged into this, too. Was there anyone’s life Brad hadn’t completely fucked up?

He was suddenly flooded with memories of those foggy days, early on. He’d been vaguely aware of his mom bullying the hospital staff into listing Nate as immediate family. “Brad’s adopted,” she said firmly, defying anyone to argue with her. “Nate’s his biological brother, for all you know. Now let him into this goddamn room!”

Nate’s parents still visited Brad several afternoons a week. Now they felt obligated to open their home to his mom, too.

He heaved a sigh and closed his eyes as his mom began to read to him. Fuck. He didn’t like causing all this upheaval in other people’s lives.

He could fucking take care of himself.

If they would just let him.

~*~

Brad’s mom was reading a stack of printed emails, out loud. People would email her with stories, jokes, updates, and well-wishes for him. Each day, she would print them out and read them to him. Brad only ever listened with half an ear.

He didn’t know how he’d managed to live this long, when so many better men have died. It was inevitable that fate would catch up with him, very soon. His body was weak and damaged, beyond permanent repair. It was just a matter of time before it gave out on him, entirely.

“Oh, hello, Nate.” The change in his mother’s tone tore Brad from his thoughts. He watched her stand to embrace Nate.

“Hello. How is everything today?” Nate arrived every afternoon, and asked the same question.

Brad had finally realized it was a code he and Brad’s mom and worked out, so they could discuss _him_ , while he sat helplessly by and listened.

“It’s been quiet,” she answered. “I was just reading some emails to Brad, to keep him up to date on what’s going on the family.”

Brad almost told her not to bother. Death was breathing down the back of his neck, so why stay caught up on current events. He probably wouldn’t even be around for the future events.

“Brad’s never been much of gossip,” Nate said with a laugh. “You’re lying there, silently insulting everyone in your head, aren’t you, Brad?”

Brad’s mom chuckled. “Oh, your sisters sent some emails, Nate. Would you like me to read the ones from Nate’s sisters, Brad?”

He didn’t give a shit which emails she read. He didn’t give a shit if she read any at all. He just didn’t have the desire; he didn’t have the _strength_ to tell her that.

It wasn’t like they needed his contribution, anyway. They got on with each other just fine, swapping brief anecdotes and bits of humor, before Brad’s mom left for the day.

Once they were alone, Nate usually resumed the novel he’d been reading. When he’d first shown up, stack of books under his arm, Brad had been afraid. Nate had majored in classics, and the last thing Brad wanted was to sit through _The Iliad_ , or _The Bull From the Sea_ , or the _Great_ Fucking _Gatsby_. Maybe Nate had been listening when Brad had told him he preferred the ‘Oh Brother, Where Art Thou’ version of _The Odyssey_.

Brad had given an inward sigh of relief when Nate had set down brand new, unread copies of the L.A. Quartet. The underbelly of 1950’s Los Angeles; prostitutes, dirty cops, mobsters, and sexually motivated murders were perfectly suited for Brad’s mood. Then _and_ now.

Today, Nate picked up _The Big Nowhere_ , and removed the bookmark from the very middle of the book. Brad liked this story. He was interested in the novel. He should be concentrating on the words, the sound of Nate’s voice. He just couldn’t keep his attention from wandering.

Brad wanted out of this hospital. He wanted to go home. He glanced surreptitiously at Nate. Brad knew he found Nate attractive. He knew he’d once had strong feelings for him. He knew it, he just couldn’t feel it. He didn’t remember what it felt like. Brad wanted to feel engine grease on his hands, smell the rich scent of the exhaust from his motorcycle. He wanted nothing more than to see the ocean, and feel the wind blow off of the waves and across his face. Instead, he was relegated to a narrow bed in an antiseptic institution.

Nate must have read Brad’s distraction of his face. He reached out a hand and firmly clasped Brad’s fingers.

“Everything okay?” he asked, concern furrowing his brow. “Do you need anything for pain?”

Before this last tour, Brad would have twined his fingers with Nate’s. Now, he left his hand lying limply on the bed.

“No, I’m good,” he answered shortly.

“Are you sure? Do you want me to read something else? Shall we just talk?” Nate pressed.

Brad snatched his hand back. “Jesus Christ, I said I’m fine. Just leave it the fuck alone.”

Nate made no comment. He went back to reading the book.

Brad couldn’t look in Nate’s direction. Instead, his eyes landed on a kid across the room. His head was covered in thick bandages, disguising a disfiguring facial injury. Brad swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat.

Watching that kid sleep, Brad was suddenly overwhelmed by the knowledge that his own life was almost over. There was no way in hell he’d live to see forty.

~*~

Brad was just weeks away from discharge now. They told him he’d be able to ride his motorcycle, he’d be able to jet ski. He _might_ be able to resume surfing. Diving wouldn’t be affected. He’d never climb a mountain again. He’d never navigate a sheer rock face, and he’d never water ski.

That meant Nate was going to be taking home half of a man. It wasn’t fair.

He was so lost in his own thoughts, he’d forgotten the therapist was behind him. She touched his shoulder when they reached his bed and Brad jumped. His heart leapt out of his chest and his hand shot out to grip her wrist, hard.

“Ouch!” she gasped. After a moment’s startled hesitation, her free hand began running soothingly over his tense shoulders. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Could you please let go of me, now? Brad, you’re hurting me.”

Nate had come out of his chair. He moved to carefully kneel in front of Brad. “Breathe slowly,” he encouraged. “In through your nose, out through your mouth.” Nate’s hands were gentle on Brad’s uninjured thigh. “You’re okay, Brad.”

Suddenly aware of just how tightly he gripped the therapist’s narrow wrist, Brad released her. His palm felt as though he’d been scalded. The skin of her wrist was white. It flushed red as the blood flow returned. She’d have bruises tomorrow.

Fuck, Brad wanted to curl his hand into a fist and slam it into the bandages on his damaged thigh. Jesus Christ, what was wrong with him? He watched the therapist rub at her injured wrist, her motions screamed at him like an accusation. He was such a fucking asshole. Brad had to get a hold of himself. He had to keep things like this from happening.

Nate helped him from the wheelchair and into bed. His voice was soft and conciliatory when he thanked the therapist, apologized, and let her know he’d take things from here.

“Hey, you didn’t mean to hurt her,” Nate said, as he eased Brad’s damaged leg under the bedclothes. “She understands. We all understand.”

As if Brad needed everyone’s fucking pity.

~*~

The morning they let Nate take Brad home, Nate’s family and Brad’s mom came to see him off. He knew he should appreciate that they had all made the time, and taken the effort, on his behalf. They were working overtime to let him know they cared.

Brad wanted to feel the appreciation that was lingering there, as if lost in a mist, but he couldn’t quite lay hands on it. He wanted to let their love and concern wash over him, but it was like those things kept getting carried away on a breeze before they reached him.

His mom was flying home from Baltimore the following morning. In the parking lot, beside Nate’s small SUV, she brushed Brad’s too-long bangs out of his eyes – something she hadn’t been able to do since he was fifteen – and kissed his forehead. “You let Nate take care of you, Bradley. Don’t give that boy a hard time. Call me if you need _anything_.”

Brad agreed, sullenly. He was grateful when they all walked away. He didn’t want them to witness his struggle to get himself into the car.

The nurse was adept at assisting him. His motions were slow and deliberate. He touched carefully. Each action moved Brad forward, without jarring his injuries too badly.

Folding himself, injured arm and leg and all, into the passenger seat was the easy part. But once he was there, Brad couldn’t breathe. The passenger seat in the SUV looked too much like the passenger seat in the Humvee. His view out the windscreen, the window to his right, they all conspired to _remind_ him. Sweat broke out along his hairline.

Thank god Nate left the door open while he thanked the nurse for his help, and watched him wheel the chair back toward the hospital.

Nate closed the door gently, and Brad’s heart was suddenly in his throat.

He could hear _sounds_. Loud noises, screams and shouts. He could smell things. Burning bodies, blood, exploded ordinance.

Brad shoved the car door back open with damp palms and trembling hands. He fucking fell out of the vehicle, wrenching his injured leg in the process. He braced himself against the SUV, and hauled himself back to his feet. Pain stole what was left of his breath. His bad leg almost gave out, but Brad willed it to hold. He couldn’t see approaching threats if he was lying crumpled on the ground.

Nate was suddenly beside him. “Brad, what’s wrong? Talk to me.”

“Give me the keys, Nate,” he demanded. Now that he was outside of the car, his pulse was slowing and he could catch his breath.

“What?”

“Give me the fucking keys. I’m driving.” There was no way in hell he was getting back into that passenger seat.

“You have a half-healed broken arm, and the leg you need to accelerate with has only just begun to regain its strength,” Nate‘s brows lifted, his eyes wide in incredulity. His mouth hung open slightly, in disbelief. “You were there when the doctors said you weren’t cleared to drive, yet.”

“I’m not getting back into that fucking seat.” Brad’s hands were shaking when he ran them over his face.

“Okay, that’s fine,” Nate said placatingly.“We’ll figure something out, but you can’t drive, Brad.”

Brad couldn’t sit in the passenger seat of a fucking car without losing his shit. His leg and arm wouldn’t let him drive himself. He wanted to tell this to Nate, but he couldn’t form the words. He saw no way out of this fucked up mess he’d created. Brad’s helplessness made him want to put his fist through a window. Safety glass or no, he might be able to shred his knuckles enough to take his mind off the pain in his leg.

“It might be better if you stretched out across the backseat, anyway. Easier on your leg, maybe?”

Brad looked inside the vehicle. Possibly, if he sat behind Nate, and stretched his legs across to the other side?

Nate opened the rear passenger door, and helped Brad to sit on the edge of the seat. With excruciatingly slow speed, Brad carefully eased himself across the length of the backseat. Nate went around and opened the rear driver’s door. He lifted and pulled, trying to help Brad where he thought he could.

Finally, Brad was all the way inside the car. Nate closed a door, and Brad flinched, but didn’t feel the need to flee. When Nate carefully closed the second door, the unwanted memories stayed away.

Settling himself back, Brad realized he could breathe. It wasn’t as bad back here. He could do this.

“Ready?” Nate asked. His smile was forced, the corners of his eyes tight with tension.

Brad had never liked that look on Nate; especially when he’d caused it. He used to like it when Nate looked at him, eyes sparkling with humor. He used to kiss Nate, just to see him smile afterward.

Brad nodded his readiness. Why was Nate even putting himself through this?

~*~

Brad was stretched out on the sofa. He’d finished the six-pack, hoping it would induce a dreamless sleep. He didn’t sleep anymore. When he did manage to slip under, he always woke up grabbing for his weapon. A couple of weeks ago, his thrashing had caused his elbow to connect solidly with Nate’s cheekbone.

Voices. There were voices in the distance, but coming closer. Brad snapped out of his stupor, sitting straight up. He grabbed his Berretta off the coffee table and racked a round. He moved quickly, silently, through the house, ignoring the ache in his leg. He checked the locks on all the doors and windows, even though he’d already done that, several times today.

The voices were coming from the front of the house. Brad pressed himself to the wall beside the front window. The blinds were closed. They were always closed. He wouldn’t let Nate open them. That much unprotected glass wasn’t secure.

Brad parted two slats of the blinds. There were kids on the sidewalk in front of the house. He checked his watch. 3:30 p.m. Neighborhood kids walking home from school. None of them was over twelve years old.

He tried to relax his white-knuckled grip on his sidearm. Brad’s fingers were stiff from holding onto the weapon so tightly, for so long. He rested his head against the wall behind him, willing his breathing back to normal. He ran the back of one shaky hand across his forehead, wiping away the collected sweat.

Brad crossed the room and sat back down on the sofa. He removed the magazine from the Berretta and ejected the round from the chamber. He slid the cartridge back into the magazine, then reloaded the weapon. Setting it on the coffee table again, Brad settled back, hoping his beer-buzz hadn’t faded too much.

There was a scratching at the front door. Brad sat up instantly. He grabbed the Berretta and pulled back the slide. His heart was trying to pound its way through his ribcage, and he couldn’t catch his breath. He aimed at the still-closed door and waited to identify his threat.

The enemy didn’t immediately come through the front door. In fact, it sounded as though he was fumbling with a key. The key to Brad’s front door.

Fuck. Nate. Nate was home early. Who else would dick around with a key?

Brad lowered the hammer on the Berretta and slid it onto the table, just as Nate stepped through the doorway.

“Hey,” Nate greeted with a cautious half-smile.

“Hey,” Brad returned, hoping Nate couldn’t hear the rapid beat of his heart from across the room. “You’re early.”

“Yeah, well, all the foreign governments were overthrown last week. This week’s quiet,” Nate quipped.

Brad sat back on the sofa, trying to appear calmer than he felt. Nate was feeling him out, testing his mood, gauging his reactions. It had become part of their afternoon routine. It pissed Brad off that Nate had to tip-toe around him, constantly testing the quicksand that had become their life together.

He watched Nate set down his satchel and hang his keys on the hook by the door.

“How was your day, today?” Nate asked, the neutrality of his tone long practiced.

“Same old shit,” Brad growled. Nate knew Brad couldn’t do a goddamn thing with this fucked up leg.

Nate crossed to the coffee table and picked up the Berretta. With quick and confident hands, he withdrew the magazine, then slowly pulled back the slide. He ejected the cartridge.

“Why was there a round in the chamber?” he asked quietly.

“Because that’s how the gun works,” Brad snapped. “Forgetting to chamber a round can get me killed.”

“I wouldn’t think there’s much need for a loaded nine-millimeter during the day, in the middle of suburban Virginia.” Nate disappeared into the bedroom, taking the unloaded Berretta with him.

“What the fuck are you saying, Nate?” Brad yelled, surging to his feet and stalking into the kitchen.

When Nate reappeared, he’d shed his coat and tie. “I’m not _implying_ anything, Brad, if that’s what you mean. I’m providing an opening for you to tell me if there’s anything wrong.”

Brad pulled a beer from the fridge. “There’s nothing wrong. It’s not like I don’t know how to use the fucking gun. I’m a Marine, for crissake.” Brad swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. “Was a Marine.”

Nate collected empty beer bottles from several locations, and placed them into the recycling bin. The tension was palpable, but Brad couldn’t say the words that would dissipate it.

“My parents are hosting a brunch, this Saturday,” Nate finally broke the silence.

Brad grunted a response.

“About ten-thirty,” he forged ahead. “My mom said she’s making that ambrosia salad you like.”

There’d been a time when Brad’s mouth would have watered at just the thought. “Tell her not to go to any trouble.”

“She doesn’t consider you to be any trouble, Brad,” Nate scolded gently.

“I’m not going.” Brad finished off his beer.

“You can’t stay locked up inside the house all the time,” Nate’s sigh was the only sign of his frustration. “My family misses you, and really wants to see you.”

“I’m not a fucking child, Nate,” Brad shouted, because he needed to. “You can’t guilt me into doing something I don’t want to do.”

“That’s not what I’m doing …”

Brad didn’t let him finish. “Remember, my mother’s Jewish. She’s better at the guilt than you’ll ever be. I’m immune now, so just get the fuck off my back.”

“I’m not making another excuse for you,” Nate’s voice was tight, his expression pinched. “You can call my mom and tell her why you’re blowing her off. Again.”

Brad slammed his empty beer bottle into the kitchen sink. Shattered glass rained down everywhere. He didn’t stay to witness the fall out.

“Fuck you, Nate!” Brad shouted.

Brad grabbed his keys from their hook, and yanked his leather jacket from the closet. He stormed through the house toward the garage.

“You’ve been drinking, Brad,” Nate shouted, starting to follow. “Do _not_ get on that fucking motorcycle.”

Brad’s answer was a middle fingered salute, as he slammed out the door. He needed speed. He needed the sound of wind rushing over his helmet. Maybe it would drown out the thoughts racing around inside his brain.

Afternoon traffic was a motherfucker. He wove through the cars, stopped bumper-to-bumper on nearly every street. Brad drove like they weren’t even there. He zigzagged between them when he could. When he couldn’t, he raced along the left shoulder. He didn’t hesitate to take the right shoulder when he had to. When there was no other choice, he drove on the sidewalk.

Anything to keep from slowing down. Anything to not have to stop.

Finally, outside of town and free of traffic, he shifted through the gears and opened up the bike’s powerful engine. Everything was a blur around him. His heart was pounding. He could feel adrenaline prickling beneath his skin. He reached the bike’s top speed and still it wasn’t enough.

Pain was the only fuckin’ thing he could feel anymore. It wasn’t like he was going to live much longer anyway. He’d lived the best part of his life, already. Might as well go out on his own fucking terms.

It was full dark when Brad finally pulled off the road. The rest stop was deserted, but he still parked in a dark, secluded corner. Let someone try to fuck with him. He was ready.

Brad draped his jacket over the bike seat. He settled down on the curb, extending his fucked up leg to ease the ache and stiffness. He lifted the cuff of his jeans on his good leg. His fingers wrapped around the familiar hilt of his Ka-Bar. He pulled it free of the sheath he’d been carrying it in.

Closing his eyes against the sight of headlights moving in the distance, Brad gripped his knife in his right hand. He made a fist with his left. His left arm had healed sufficiently since the last time, so he rested his forearm against his good thigh, wrist up. He opened his eyes and contemplated the pale, tender skin.

Brad laid the blade of the Ka-Bar against the flesh of his arm, near the bend of his elbow, and drew it across. The cut was shallow, but the sting of it was satisfying. The tightness in his chest loosened. The blade was sharp and his skin parted easily. Brad was so familiar with his knife that, even in the dark, he could make several cuts. Each slice cleared the gathering fog from his head. He made a neat row of them, down the underside of his arm. The blood welled up slowly, the darkness making it appear black instead of deep red. He could breathe more easily now.

His arm burned with the cuts and he _felt_ it. The tension in his shoulders eased, leaving his body along with his blood.

Re-sheathing his Ka-Bar, Brad breathed deeply. The muscles in his back and shoulders released the last of their tension. He needed to go home. He knew Nate was there, pissed off and worried. Mostly worried. Brad knew this.

He’d fucked things up, but he didn’t know what he could have done differently. Brad wanted to do what made Nate happy. He just didn’t know what that was anymore. Any choice he made, these days, was the wrong one. He wanted to feel about Nate like he used. A part of him still knew what that felt like. Brad couldn’t find that part of himself, most days.

~*~

Nate was doing laundry.

Brad sat on the sofa; drinking his fifth beer, channel surfing, and ignoring Nate.

He’d told Nate to leave his duffel alone. It was filled with his uniforms. Coyote brown camouflage trousers; thermal undershirts that protected against the blast of an IED, but did nothing against flying debris, shrapnel and bullets; fleece pullovers in coyote brown and camo.

His blood-stained uniform hadn’t made it home. They’d tossed it at the field hospital in Afghanistan. The uniforms in his duffel were identical to what he’d been wearing. He couldn’t look at them without seeing his own shredded leg.

So he didn’t look.

Nate crossed the room and through Brad’s eye-line. He wore a faded pair of jeans and one of his old, olive uniform tee shirts.

Nate was handsome. He was tall and broad shouldered. Some part of Brad still found him attractive. He still thought Nate had the smoothest skin, the prettiest eyes. His freckles and that mole beneath his eye used to fascinate Brad. Nate’s muscles were never obvious until Brad got him out of his clothes. He used to really like to do that, too. Frequently. Deep down in Brad’s brain, something still wanted to shove Nate down onto the floor, strip him naked and push into him.

Those old feelings were still there. Brad knew they were. It was just, whenever he reached for him – like now – they danced backward out of his reach. It wasn’t fair to Nate. Brad’s gut turned, knowing he was the one putting Nate through this. At times like this, Brad wished fate would get its shit together and come claim him, so Nate would be free. Brad wasn’t going to get the life with Nate he’d hoped he would. His borrowed time was almost up. They’d missed their one chance to achieve all that they had planned together. Nate could move on, though.

“What should I do with your uniforms?” Nate asked quietly, yanking Brad from his thoughts.

He shrugged. If Brad thought about it, he’d remember. He wasn’t going to think about it.

“I’ll pack them up until you decide,” Nate said. “Some of mine are still around here, too. Somewhere.”

Brad didn’t comment. He pretended to watch the TV as his uniforms, if not the memories, were packed away.

“Do you want to go out to dinner tonight?” Nate asked.

Brad shook his head.

“We could invite some people over here. Just a few. I could cook.”

Brad’s answer was to finish his beer.

Nate approached Brad slowly. He sat gently on the coffee table, facing Brad. He leaned his elbows on his knees, and sighed heavily. “You don’t want to go anywhere. You don’t do anything except sit around here and drink beer. You avoid people, including your own family.” Nate’s voice was soft, but Brad could hear his pent up pain and frustration. “You don’t touch me anymore, and I don’t dare touch you. Please do something about it. Please.”

Brad was fine. He didn’t need Nate pushing him to get to some arbitrary level of ‘healed’ before he was ready. His fuckin’ leg was still healing. He’d been promoted, meritoriously, to Master Sergeant, and summarily, if honorably, discharged. He had no job. Until his leg healed, he couldn’t go out and find one. Nate should be smart enough to know this.

He glanced in Nate’s direction, at the same moment Nate looked up. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell Nate to stop being such a Yenta, but the look in Nate’s eyes stopped Brad cold. The pain he saw there, the pleading, made him feel gut-punched.

Brad had always been able to use words to great effect, except when it came to telling Nate how he felt about him. Brad had always had to resort to touch, to smooth over his fuck ups with Nate. That way was closed to him, now. He still wanted Nate’s touch, he just couldn’t stand to feel it anymore. Brad couldn’t stand for anyone to touch him. He ached to reach out to Nate and tell him all of this, using only his hands. Instead, he curled them into fists at his sides.

“A couple people,” he stopped at the rough sound of his own voice. He cleared his throat and started again. “We can invite a couple of people over. I’ll help you cook. Just a couple of people. Not too many.”

Nate’s expression morphed to hopeful but guarded. “Good. It’s a start.” It seemed he wanted to say more, but thought better of it.

~*~

An explosive sound woke Brad from his troubled sleep. He threw himself from the sofa, onto the floor, grabbing the Berretta from its place on the table. He racked a round before his shoulder hit the floor.

Brad was under attack. He gripped his weapon with both hands, and tried to identify the threat. Loud noises were coming from behind the house. He combat-crawled along the floor, ignoring the searing pain in his arm and his leg. Brad knew he’d been hit, but he’d deal with it later. Now, he needed to neutralize the threat.

Diesel engines roared. Sounds of thunderous percussion carried across the small backyard. Brad’s head was filled with the sounds. They echoed and reverberated through him. He had to make it all stop.

Brad pressed himself against the wall next to a window. The sounds were carrying in through that window. He parted the blinds and looked, briefly. A large vehicle was on the other side of the short fence. There were men out there. He could see them moving around. They were the cause of the loud, crashing noises.

He didn’t think he could take them out from here, with just his side arm. He needed to get closer. Brad knew he needed to sneak across the small yard, but the wound to his leg wouldn’t let him. His arm hung uselessly at his side.

Pressing his back tight to the wall, he considered his options. Nate would be home soon. Brad had to take out the threat before Nate got here. He had to protect Nate, keep him safe.

Brad snorted a laugh at the absurdity of that thought. Nate could fucking take care of himself, he’d been a Marine, too. Maybe if Nate got here soon, he could cover Brad, provide support. He could really use Nate’s help, right now.

Like a beautiful avenging angel, Nate suddenly appeared in front of him.

“Brad, Brad,” he said quietly, firmly, “Brad, it’s okay. You’re safe. Give me the gun, Brad.” Nate knelt before him, carefully not touching.

“I’m hit,” Brad bit out, through clenched teeth.

“I know,” Nate soothed, “but that was months ago. You’re fine now. Give me the gun, Brad.”

“We’re under attack,” Brad’s chest heaved with every breath, and it was hard to speak. “It’s an ambush.”

“It’s garbage collection, Brad,” Nate said, palms out in supplication. “You’re at home and you’re safe. No one’s coming for you. You’re safe, Brad. I’m here with you. We’re okay. Now, give me the gun.”

It was hard to hear Nate’s voice, over the sound of his own beating heart. Brad thought about it. He was in his own home. He glanced down and didn’t see any wounds. He listened closely to the sounds from outside. The diesel engine wasn’t a Humvee. The crashing sounds weren’t the sounds of battle.  
 __

 _Fuck_.

Brad let Nate take the Berretta from his numb fingers. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry and his throat was tight. He began to struggle to his feet. Nate reached out to help.

“Don’t touch me,” Brad yelled, shoving Nate’s hands away. He levered himself up against the wall.

Brad realized he was losing his fucking mind.

Nate set the Berretta on a nearby table, and turned back to Brad. “Come on, let’s go sit down. I’ll get you some water.”

“Fuck the water, I need a beer,” Brad barked.

“You don’t need beer,” Nate argued, his expression darkening. “I suspect beer might have been a factor in your overreaction.”

Brad couldn’t believe he’d mistaken fucking trash collectors for armed hostiles. He was better than that. “You don’t know a fuckin’ thing about it,” he snapped at Nate.

“I know more than you think, Brad,” Nate said sharply. “You thought you were under attack from the trash men. You had a loaded gun in your hand, trying to figure out how to kill a couple of innocent civilians.”

“I was in a defensive position,” Brad argued lamely, running trembling hands through his hair. “I wasn’t on the offensive.”

“I’m afraid of what would have happened if you’d had a clear shot,” Nate reached toward Brad. “Now come on, let’s go sit down.”

“Fuck off, Nate.”

Nate’s hand wrapped lightly around Brad’s bicep. Brad curled his other hand into a fist. “Get the fuck off me!” he roared, as he aimed his blow. Brad’s fist landed squarely against Nate’s jaw. Nate stumbled backward, releasing Brad, but he didn’t go down.

Of course he didn’t. It would take more than a blow to his chin to bring Nate Fick to his knees.

Brad stood frozen, unable to say the words he knew he should. He watched, detached, as Nate dabbed at his lower lip and checked for blood. There was none, and Brad felt a modicum of relief. It wasn’t going to stop a bruise from blossoming on Nate’s jaw. Remorse settled over Brad like a heavy blanket, and his shoulders sagged from the weight. Things had gone too far, finally. No way should he have ever considered Nate a threat. Brad realized he was out of control.

When he spoke, Nate’s voice was low and dangerous. The tremor it held was the only indication of his barely contained rage. “I’ve tried to be patient and understanding, Brad. But you’ve gone too far, this time.”

Brad pushed away from the wall. Nate backed up several steps. Brad flinched. His legs felt like rubber. He wasn’t sure his knees would hold him much longer.

“I’m gonna go lie down.” Brad indicated the bedroom door.

“Yeah, I think you should,” Nate agreed.

Brad limped into the bedroom, and collapsed onto the bed. He lay back and threw an arm over his eyes.

He had no idea how much time passed before Nate came into the room. Brad lowered his arm. He knew Nate wasn’t going to let him hide behind anything while they had this talk.

Nate sat on the edge of the bed. He held a bag of frozen peas to his jaw, where Brad had hit him.

“You need to get help, Brad,” he said simply, and quietly. “You’ve developed a short temper, you’re jumpy and easily startled. You’ve lost all interest in anything you used to do, and you drink too much. You can’t sleep, you have nightmares. You’re hyper-vigilant, and you just experienced a flashback.”

Brad could only nod at the truth of Nate’s words.

“You just hit me,” Nate continued, ominously. “We live together, Brad. You realize what it means, that you hit me?”

“Yeah, I do.” He should probably apologize, but he had a feeling it wouldn’t make any difference at this point.

“You carry a loaded handgun around the house, and you just hit me. I can’t live like this. I _won’t_ live like this.”

Brad’s stomach turned sour. He knew what came next. He wanted to retrieve his Ka-Bar and put a few long slices into his arm, just so he could make it through hearing Nate’s next words. He remembered just how much Nate meant to him, now that he’d gone too far.

“I’ve asked you to get help, before. Now I’m telling you.” Nate leaned over Brad, ensuring Brad looked him straight in the eye. “Get help, or I’m moving out. It’s not an ultimatum. It’s a promise.”

Brad could only blink. Nate had given him a choice.

“If you don’t want to go to the VA, we can find a private therapist. I suggest one that specializes in law enforcement. There are a lot of similarities, there.”

“Yeah, okay,” Brad agreed readily, reaching desperately for the olive branch Nate extended. “That’s a good idea.”

Nate nodded, his expression losing some of its tension. “If your benefits won’t cover it, I’ll pay for it myself. If we have to, I’ll declare you as a domestic partner and get you onto my health plan.”

Brad started to protest, then realized he didn’t have a single solid argument.

“There’s absolutely no reason, anymore, why we can’t do that.” Nate’s words echoed Brad’s thoughts. “Whatever it takes, Brad. You get the help, you do the work, and I’ll take care of everything else.”

Brad didn’t think he was worth all of this heartache he was apparently putting Nate through. Nate seemed to think he was, though. Nate was pretty fucking smart, so Brad thought it might be time to heed his advice.

“I have the feeling it’s not going to get better overnight.” Brad wasn’t quite sure what it was he was trying to say.

“No, it won’t,” Nate replied quickly. “But I don’t expect it to. All I ask is that you do the work, get the help. Progress, not perfection.”

“Think you can stick it out long enough?”

Brad saw a flash of pain in Nate’s eyes just before he squeezed them shut. His shoulders sagged. “I miss you, Brad. I’ll stick it out if there’s any chance I can have you back.”

Brad nodded his understanding. Speaking was impossible past the lump in his throat.

“Can I touch you?” Nate asked, surprising Brad.

He realized how much he missed Nate’s touch. It saddened him that they’d reached a point where Nate had to ask permission, or risk injury.

Brad opened his arms. Nate rested his head against Brad’s chest, gripping his shirt tightly. At Nate’s first touch, Brad remembered how much he liked this, and just how long it had been. Brad wrapped his arms around Nate’s shoulders and breathed deeply. He caught the scent of Nate’s hair, and recognized yet another thing he missed.

This was the closest to normal Brad had felt, since his Humvee had flipped over. Nate’s warmth was comforting, his weight was reassuring. Nate clung to Brad, almost desperately. He wondered, suddenly, how much pain he’d inflicted on Nate, without ever laying a hand on him.

~*~

Brad had a set of briefs and sleep pants in his hand, about to put them on and slide into bed, when he caught sight of his damaged thigh. It was obviously deformed, but it wasn’t hideous to look at. The scars were still an angry red, but he realized they would fade in time, until they became smooth and pale.

Fuck it. If Nate wasn’t bothered by the sight, Brad was done worrying about it. Nate looked at his leg with impassivity, or with interest, but never with revulsion. On the rare occasions Nate saw Brad naked, he didn’t focus on the leg or the barely-there surgery scars on his arm, but took in the whole with appreciation – and no small amount of desire.

He tossed the clothes back into their drawers, and slid between the sheets naked. It felt good. Brad hadn’t slept like this since … well, in a very long time. He was about to shut off the bedside light, when Nate padded quietly into the room. He gave Brad a significant look, one side of his mouth lifting in a hesitant smile, before slipping into the bathroom.

Brad couldn’t remember that last time he and Nate had gone to bed at the same time. He left the light on so Nate could find his way easily across the room.

Nate emerged from the bathroom completely naked and semi-hard. Brad was surprised. It had been a long time since Nate had been that blatant in his nudity. Brad’s pulse kicked upward slightly. His cock stirred between his legs, in a way it hadn’t in a good long while. He watched Nate slide into bed beside him. He reached for the lamp switch, but Nate stopped him.

Brad swiveled his head on the stack of pillows, and watched as Nate settled on his side, facing Brad. He propped his head with several pillows, and watched Brad closely, that half smile lifting one side of his generous mouth.

“You going to bed early, tonight?” Brad asked the obvious.

“I thought I’d try,” Nate replied. “That all right with you?”

Brad could feel the warmth of Nate’s body seeping into the sheets. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

“The doctor took you off the anti-depressant a month ago, didn’t he?”

“About that, yeah.” Brad wondered at Nate’s query. He knew better than Brad, what medications he’d been weaned off of.

“How are you feeling without them?”

“As good as I did with them,” Brad answered truthfully, thinking of everything that held his interest these days; all the activities he and Nate participated in, again. They’d been jet skiing, recently. Brad couldn’t jog, but he could out-walk Nate without even breathing heavy. Together, they had gone to restaurants, bars, and even a shopping mall.

“Without the frustrating side effects, maybe?” Nate asked, shifting slightly closer to Brad.

“Are you thinking of one side effect in particular?” Brad couldn’t help his smile. He felt himself stir with interest, remembering how good it used to feel to press himself against Nate’s body.

“Absolutely,” Nate replied, then his expression fell into serious lines. “Unless it’s not the side effects that’s been the problem.”

How in the hell could he be asking that? Especially when he rightfully should have turned his back on Brad long ago. He skimmed the backs of his fingers along Nate’s cheek, watching his eyes widen in surprise. “I assure you, my many, and assorted, problems have never been about you.”

Nate’s responding kiss had the taste of desperation. He cradled Brad’s skull and licked into his mouth. Nate tasted good. Brad spanned Nate’s ribs with one hand, and kissed him back, hard. This felt right. It felt like it used to, not like the awkward false starts they’d given up on in the recent past. He’d done what he could to bring Nate off a few times, but nothing either of them had tried could overcome Brad’s meds.

Brad pressed himself flush to Nate’s heated body. He ground their cocks together, feeling Nate push back. Nate’s cock was hard against Brad’s hip. He breathed against Nate’s open mouth, wanting more. Brad wanted more than he’d wanted in longer than he could remember.

Nate slid a hand down between their bodies, and wrapped his fingers around Brad’s slowly-hardening cock. It was a welcome sensation, and Brad fucked himself into Nate’s fist. It had been a very long time since Brad had been able to feel much in the way of arousal. His own hand on his dick might coax a partial hard-on, but coming had become a struggle. He’d just quit touching himself all together.

Now, Nate had his full attention, and if he could get all the way hard this time, Brad wasn’t going to last long.

“I’ve fucking missed you,” Nate whispered against Brad lips, so quiet, he almost didn’t hear it.

Brad silently agreed, with his whole heart. He hoped his sluggish physical reaction didn’t give Nate the wrong idea.

“How ‘bout I provide a little added encouragement?” Nate asked, already pushing back the bedclothes and sliding his body down the length of Brad’s.

Brad always did admire Nate’s quick mind.

Nate straddled Brad’s good leg and sucked his dick with enthusiasm. The wet heat was just as good as Brad remembered. He felt the pounding pulse of blood rush into his cock with each glide of Nate’s mouth. He kept growing longer and thicker, long after he thought Nate had encouraged everything from him. Brad felt Nate’s lips on him, really felt it. He’d been so numb for so long. He shifted his injured leg slightly, giving Nate room to work, silently asking for more.

Brad’s wish was granted when Nate released his nearly-hard cock with a lewd, wet pop, and shifted to take one of Brad’s balls into his mouth. Brad moaned encouragement, loving the feel of Nate’s lips on his sac, his tongue lapping at each of Brad’s balls in turn. Gently, but firmly, Nate shifted so he could press Brad’s leg upward. He lowered himself and tongued Brad’s hole.

Brad chuckled breathlessly. “I fucking love your tongue.”

Nate’s answer was to lick into him, lap at him, run his thumbs over Brad’s opening. “Do you want to come like this? With my mouth?”

“I want to be inside of you,” Brad blurted, caution apparently in the wind.

Nate surged upward, pressing his chest to Brad’s. They kissed, wet and messy, while Nate jacked him, firm and slow.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Nate husked, pressing his forehead to Brad’s, chest heaving with each breath. “Can we do this without hurting you?”  
 __

 _Fuck_. Was Brad’s leg always going to factor into their every interaction? “This seems good.” he indicated their current positions. “Or on our sides?”

“Yeah,” Nate said, sitting up suddenly. “We can try it this way. I’ll be careful.”

Nate leaned to the side and pulled out the drawer of his bedside table. He withdrew a fresh bottle of lubricant and a condom. He set them on the bed and carefully moved until he was straddling Brad’s chest.

Brad’s eyes locked on the foil-wrapped condom, and his entire body tensed. He picked up the offending object, running his thumb over its smooth surface thoughtfully. He and Nate hadn’t used condoms since long before he’d deployed for that final, ill-fated tour. They both knew Brad hadn’t been in any shape to fuck, at all.

It had to be Nate, for whom things had changed.

“Hey,” Nate said abruptly, snatching the condom from Brad’s fingers, and with it, his attention. “It’s been so long for both of us, this is just to help make it last longer.” He smiled and it lit his entire face. “I’ll take all the help we can get.”

The painful tightness in Brad’s chest eased. He smiled his appreciation, as he reached for the lube bottle, and tore away the plastic wrapping. “Can I do this?” Brad asked, “Or do you need to?”

“You give it a try,” Nate replied, steadying himself with a hand on the headboard, “and we’ll see how it goes.”

Brad coated two fingers, then slid his hand between Nate’s thighs where they straddled his chest. He watched Nate’s face closely, as he slid one finger into this body. Nate’s eyes slid closed, his expression smoothing out, then suffusing with pleasure. His cheeks were flushed, and his mouth fell slightly open. That was the look Brad remembered, the one he’d hoped to earn.

Nate moaned softly, low in his throat. He pushed against Brad’s hand slightly, and clenched tight around his finger. Brad stroked his finger in and out, pushing it to the last knuckle. He twisted slightly, spreading the lube carefully.

Gently, he added his second finger. He watched the corner of Nate’s mouth lift in smile. He stared down at Brad with heavy lidded eyes.

“Fuck, that’s good,” Nate sighed.

Brad slid three fingers into Nate’s clenching hole. He crooked one of them, pressing easily into the gland he found unerringly. The result was immediate and gratifying.

Nate slapped another hand onto the headboard in reaction. “Don’t fuck around like that,” he said on a mirthless laugh. “It’s a struggle to hang on, as it is.”

Brad chuckled in answer and pressed his fingers deep. Nate gasped when he drew them out to add more lube. His body opened right up, this time.

“Are you ready?” Brad asked, tongue thick in his mouth. “It’s been awhile, so I don’t want to rush you.”

Nate eased himself down Brad’s body, moving carefully and keeping his own leg well away from Brad’s damaged one. Brad pushed away his dark thoughts about the constant need for that. Nate tore open the condom packet and reached for Brad’s cock.

Brad covered Nate’s hands with his own, stilling his movements. “I’d better do that. If I let you, this might be over before it gets started.”

Nate gave the condom over readily, and watched with an avid fascination as Brad rolled it onto himself. Brad added more lube to his sheathed cock. It had been so long for both of them, he wasn’t going to chance hurting Nate with too much friction and drag.

Brad stopped breathing when Nate sank down onto his erection. He watched Nate’s expression closely, pleased to find only pleasure. How Nate managed to look ethereal and debauched at the same time, Brad would never know.

Nate moved slowly, fucking himself on Brad’s cock, his motions steady and measured. Brad was eager and tactile, running his palms up Nate’s thighs and skimming over his ribs. Nate sank down, taking all of Brad deep inside his body. Brad wrapped his hands around Nate’s ribcage, and held on for all he was worth.

This was where, before his injuries, Brad would have bent his knees and dropped his thighs open, pressing with his heels to fuck up into Nate. His left leg still worked in the same manner, but his damaged right leg was already aching. Nate was moving carefully, keeping well away from that injury, balancing so the force of his weight pressed down more heavily on Brad’s good side. Brad wished they could both just let go and fuck like they used to.

Brad drew his left knee up, pressed his foot flat into the mattress, and somehow, they found a rhythm. Nate rode Brad’s cock at a furious pace and Brad pushed up into him, getting as deep as he could.

He watched Nate watching him, as they moved together. Brad gripped Nate’s ribs, knowing he would leave bruises. Nate’s hands wrapped around Brad’s biceps with an equally tight grasp. Fuck, Brad had missed this. He’d missed Nate’s heat enveloping him. He’d missed the loud, sweaty meeting of their bodies. He’d missed the sight of Nate coming.

Brad silently thanked Nate for thinking of the condom. He was on the razor’s edge of coming, despite the ache in his thigh. If not for Nate’s strategic planning, he probably would have shot his load already. He wanted to last longer, he _needed_ to last longer, so that Nate would be sated and happy.

“You okay?” Nate grunted between hard thrusts. His rhythm faltered slightly, when he reached back to caress Brad’s damaged thigh.

“Fuck yeah,” Brad breathed. “You feel so fucking good.”

“So do you. Christ, I love your cock.”

Brad wrapped a hand around Nate’s straining erection. “I wanna make you come.”

Nate twined his fingers with Brad’s. Together, they stroked Nate’s cock. He watched Nate closely, letting his own expression remain honest and open. He owed Nate that much.

“Fuck, I’m close,” Nate groaned, never looking away from Brad’s face. He always did that before; let Brad see everything. He knew Brad wanted to see everything.

Nate’s entire body tensed. All motion stopped. Brad held his breath as he watched and waited. Nate’s mouth fell open in a silent cry of pleasure. Brad didn’t dare blink. Nate’s fingers tightened in Brad’s, where they were wrapped around Nate’s cock. Brad’s erection was gripped in the tight heat of Nate’s body as he came. Hot splashes of thick come landed on Brad’s belly and chest. He felt each rolling wave of Nate’s climax in his dick, as Nate’s body clenched all around him.

Brad braced his hands on Nate’s chest when he toppled forward, finally released from the grip of his orgasm. He laughed self-consciously, and Brad could tell he was giddy with pleasure. Nate braced himself with a hand on either side of Brad.

“I haven’t come like that in … a long fucking time.” Nate’s chest heaved with each breath.

Suddenly, he sat up, rising off of Brad’s cock with a hiss. “Fuck! Easy, easy, easy … oh fuck,” Brad protested.

Nate shushed him as he rolled the condom off of Brad’s sensitized dick. Tossing it aside, Nate sank down, taking Brad back into his body.

The heat that enveloped Brad was scalding. He couldn’t help but push himself upward hard and fast. His thigh protested with a sharp pain. Brad ignored it. It didn’t take more than three or four thrusts, and he was coming inside of Nate.

It rolled over him fast and hard. His fingers clenched tight at Nate’s hips. Brad’s eyes slammed shut on their own, and he watched lights dance across the backs of his lids. His orgasm rolled through his hips and settled, almost painfully, low in his gut. For several long moments, Brad’s body didn’t feel like his own.

When Brad could move again, Nate eased off of him. Brad struggled to catch his breath. For the first time in longer than he could remember, Brad felt peace. He felt at home in his own skin.

When Nate disappeared into the bathroom for a warm, wet cloth, Brad got up and retrieved two bottles of water from the kitchen. He intended to show Nate he could care for himself now. He was determined to take care of Nate, when and where he could.

Brad stood passively, drinking his water, as Nate cleaned him of their combined sweat and come. When he was done, Brad pulled him in for a kiss.

Brad reassembled the bed, and together they climbed back in. He shut out the light, and lay in the dark, listening to Nate breathe, feeling the heat of his body permeate the sheets.

“Can I touch you?” Nate whispered into the dark.

“You don’t have to ask that anymore, Nate,” Brad answered gently. “We’re past that, now.”

Slowly, cautiously, Nate’s arm snaked around Brad’s waist. Brad opened his arms and drew Nate closer to him. Nate rested his head on Brad’s chest. He caught the scent of Nate’s hair; a little like his shampoo, a little like his sweat, but mostly Nate. Brad inhaled deeply, shutting his eyes and just savoring.

In Brad’s arms, Nate relaxed against him completely. He collapsed, boneless, into the bed. It was a complete release of tension, and something Brad hadn’t felt Nate do since … well … since before that last deployment.

Brad sighed, and let himself relax along with Nate. Moments later, Nate’s breathing evened out and he began to snore lightly. Brad smiled to himself. He pulled Nate closer and ignored the pain in his thigh. It was already starting to fade, anyway, and he hadn’t even taken anything for it.

Brad was relaxed enough to sleep. He knew he’d escape insomnia tonight. With Nate wrapped around him, he might even get away without having a nightmare. Best of all, he and Nate could touch each other again.

He may have come back _wounded_ , but Brad had not _broken_.

**Author's Note:**

> While working as a Dispatcher, I volunteered with our Department’s trauma counselors. They gave us all sorts of training on PTSD, including firsthand accounts from Peace Officers who suffered from it. Some of Brad’s experiences are taken from their stories. Some are of my own creation, based on the identified symptoms of the condition.


End file.
